“But what is your name?”
“Frank Braine.”
“Then you are not the Tumongong’s son?”
“Tumon grandmother’s—ha! ha! What a game! Oh, I see now! I forgot that I was in nigger togs. You took me for one of them.”
“Of course I did.”
“Well, it’s a rum one. Won’t father laugh! That’s why you were so cocky at first?”
“Yes, I didn’t know you were Mr Braine’s son. You are, aren’t you?”
“Course I am. Been out here two years now. I was at Marlborough—school you know—and I’d got the whiffles or something so bad, the doctor said I should die if I wasn’t sent to a warm climate. They sent a letter to the dad, and it was nine months getting to him. Ma says he was in a taking till he’d got a despatch sent down to Singapore, to be dillygraphed home to England for me to come here directly. He couldn’t fetch me, you know. The ould one, as Tim calls him, wouldn’t let him go. You know him?”
“Yes.”
“Well, they sent me out, and after they’d carried me on board, the captain of the steamer told one of the passengers that it was a shame to have sent me, for I should die before I was half-way out. It made me so wild, that I squeaked out that he didn’t know what he was talking about, and he’d better mind his own business. And he didn’t either, for I began to get better directly, and the old skipper shook hands with me, and was as pleased as could be, one day just before we got to Singapore; for I had climbed up into the foretop and laughed at him, I’d got so much stronger. Then I had to go up to Malacca, and there old Bang-gong met me.”